


Armour

by AlexKrenin



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Swearing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKrenin/pseuds/AlexKrenin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected election candidate threatens to ruin Malcolm's last years of hard work. As a last resort, and upon Jamie's suggestion, he turns to Julius for financial help. Julius comes up with a surprising way of getting paid in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jamie - I am the end of you.

 

**-Jamie MacDonald, head Press Officer-**

**Friday the 10th of November 2003, 4:12pm.**

 

 

,-« Well, maybe you should do just that, then.” I whisper.

 

 

Malcolm doesn’t look up right away. His brow frowns slightly, so I guess he heard me, but he keeps on reading the same five-paged fax he‘s been reading for pretty much half of the afternoon now.

His office is a mess. Stacks of files I haven’t read and stacks of takeaway he hasn’t eaten. It’s not the usual pre-election mess. It’s not Malcolm being mildly rushed through the day and having to let go of the cleaning-up for a while. It’s bloody war-room crisis mess.

It’s been a week now since this out-of-nowhere middle-class Sussex shitehole cunt has risen up to stand for the election. He came out of nowhere, two months ago. Gathered disgustingly good numbers. Something about his country-town priory school fucking history teacher face and his honest speeches about how sick England had become, I dunno. He turned from a fucking joke to a bloody nuclear menace in five weeks. And of course, six days ago, he stood up for PM election, with a fighting chance to win over Malcolm’s horse in the last minutes of the show, right before the end credits. Abra fucking dabra.

 

I’ve been looking at Malcolm fighting for decades now. I know what fear looks like in his eyes. Anyone else could mistake it as rage, or fury, or rampant madness, but it is fear, I know that. It’s been a week, and he’s tried everything. The Sussex twat has such a flawless past, family and health it causes instant-death-boredom. He’s a fucking London Politics underage virgin, and he actually doesn’t believe in Malcolm’s threats, because, hell, the star-eyed countryside shitheap doesn’t even know who Malcolm is. He is every spin doctor’s worst nightmare. He is fucking new, he is fucking sincere.

 

He’s a fucking **good guy.**

 

The underfed old cunt is paler than he’s ever been. Fuck, when was the last time he fucking ate something? I get up from my chair with a wince - Christ, I’ve been sitting there for ages- and I pick up a fruit smoothie I had delivered in two hours ago for him. Yea. Still cold. Good.

I put the wee plastic tumbler in front of him.

-“Drink the fuck up, or ya’ll crumble down to ashes like the ancient vampire you are on a sunny Monday morning.”

-“you’re kidding, right?”

-“No, I’m not fucking kidding, you piss-brained old twat, you haven’t swallowed anything since…

-“Not about the food, you Polly-Pocket moron, about…”

 

He waves a vague hand, his spiderlegs fingers dancing in the air. I’ve always loved that. Do that again, Malc.

 

_Do that forever._

 

-“About me doing that.” He sighs.

 

Ah, he did hear me then.

 

I sit back down, a wee bit more heavily than I meant.

I’ve seen war-rooms, I’ve seen them all. I’ve seen mess and I’ve seen fear. I’ve seen him exhausted, white as a sheet, thin as livewire. I’ve seen him terrified, and yet punching his way out of shite a thousand times. Last-minute epiphanies, hurried phone calls to save the day. He’s the Spin Doctor. The evil overlord, and he can do everything.

I’ve seen everything.

But **this.**

 

Election night is tomorrow and he still has nothing to spin. He has nothing because there is nothing. It had to happen one day, I guess. He had to come one day, this angel-eyed waste of flesh. In three years though, he'll be just like all the rest, bent like a fucking crossbow blade and filthy as a nun's wet dream, but yeah, he may win the election tomorrow. I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if it didn’t mean a broken Malcolm at the end of it all. Defeat would break him. I’d kill the motherfucker tomorrow at noon rather than see Malcolm defeated. Seeing him that close to despair already fucking twists my guts.

He has nothing.

Well. No. He has _one thing._

 

The Trump Card. The gun that only fires once. The dagger in his boot, the one you pull out when you already have one knee in the dust. A white, bald uptight Old England ace in his sleeve called Julius.

The Lord Nicholson of Arnage has one thing none of us have. A fuckload o’ money. I mean, Malcolm’s not poor, allright, he’s nowhere near middle class, with his two-grand suits and city centre apartment and shit, but that’s nothing compared to a Victorian manor, thirty generations of English nobility and a bunch of fifty business and industry Iron Throne buddies.

Malcolm can trap, ensnare, threaten, push and play people.

But when none of that is possible, well, what Julius can do is to _buy_ them.

 

When you can’t find a story, you have to make up a story. To make up bullshit and print it as fucking Jesus Words, you need to buy people. You just drown them in shameful money, deep enough to shut their mouths for years to come and glue them to the line you bloody gave them. To make up some filthy scandal about Sussex Virgin, it’ll need a fully loaded contact list – Malcolm has that – and a fucking seven-digits bank account. Julius has that.

 

Here we are, then. Reading this fax for the twentieth time, in his cave made of files and takeaway boxes, when despair is more than a word, and had become a restless song in our ears, Malcolm Tucker breathing lightly:

-“There’s still one option. Getting Julius to buy us a story.”

After an eternity of silence, I say he could. And yes, I am serious.

 

-“I’m not kidding. Unless you get a fucking message from God unveiling pictures of that cunt balls deep into a draft horse from now to tomorrow 8pm, that’s the only thing left to do.”

-“He’ll have to bribe chief editors and minions of at least five papers” he mutters, distant and wary eyes on the smoothie tumbler, “and a few straw men from whatever countryside shithole to repeat the lines…”

-“Yes.

-“ That’ll cost the skin of his bald shiny arse.

-“Yes.

-“He won’t do that for me. Not for peanuts.

 

My guts clench again, with the acid burn I know so well. I’ve known it from day one of the five years I’ve spent under the spell of Malcolm Tucker. The day I touched his hand, the day I made him mine, was the first day of that burning rage. Rage for every one of those insane lopsided smiles he gives to whichever fucker he wants something from, rage for every sweet word, every heavy-lidded glance, every dance of his hands. The scorching fire of seeing him charm anyone else than me.

 

I know it’s basically what spinning requires. Being a whore. The most clever, foul and machiavelian whore of the British Government. You have to pull all the strings. And, fuck, Malcolm’s got a complete harp of fucking strings. I know, he told me, arching his hips up in my bed, he told me, voice thick with lust, he told me again and again he was mine and mine only.

I know, I know.

I still want to murder all those cunts, burn their houses down and bury their names in filth and soil.

 

But **I know.**

I know what Malcolm would have to do to persuade Julius to give away that pile of money.

 

-“The bald fuck’s been hot for you since Ice Age. In which you both were born, by the way.”

My pathetic attempt at covering my spite with a joke is rewarded by a frown and a stare. Better than nothing.

-“That’s it?” he hisses. “That’s what you’re suggesting? That I basically knock on his Phantom House’s door wearing nothing but a loose silk bathrobe and after-shave, offering my ass for back-handing money?”

 

The picture alone could give me a raging hard-on, if I dwell on it for too long. That’s why I almost welcome the thought that follows right next, Julius having Malcolm in his fancy medieval king-size bed. The rage boils my innards to liquid fire, but I keep my voice down.

-“What else do you intend to bring in the deal? Your sworn allegiance? He wouldn’t believe you if you promised to pay for his next box of biscuits. He’s an uptight Oxford faggot, but he’s not stupid. He’d want you to deliver your pretty arse immediately.

-“If he thinks my arse is fair price.

-“Oh, he will. For one night, he’d buy you the fucking Commonwealth.”

He stops and stares, completely unmoving, for thirty jolly good seconds. I see the swift calculation in his eyes, from my words to ten years of separate moments working, talking, drinking and walking with Julius Nicholson. Assessing clues and reviewing glances, weighing the truth in my sentence. I'm sure h'ell be going all Mister Spock and eventually come out with a likelihood in fucking three decimal percentage form, but my patience isn't that good:

-”Trust me on this, rake-thin old cunt, you'll be giving him the time of his life. Flesh for fantasy and shit. He'll come in his pants with you just mentioning-”

He cuts me mid-sentence by getting up furious and knocking over a pile of papers higher than his fucking legs in the process.

-”I know, you Motherwell puddle of cynical spit, I know !

He sways, then, and before I can even gasp, he falls down on the carpeted floor as a rag doll. Fuck.

 

**-”Malc!”**

 

When was the last time he ate, for God's sake?

 

 

I throw myself down on the floor and gather him up in my arms, checking for concussion, or anything broken. His hands are shaking like mad. I hold them both in a firm grip and draw circles on his knuckles with my thumb. Someone on the radio is whispering nonsense in hurried tones. His eyes are empty and wide open, frozen blue like those mountain lakes you can skate upon. It takes a full minute to understand it's not the radio I'm hearing. It's my own voice.

 

-”It's okay, luv. You've gone too far, eh. Body says fuck. No, don't get up, sweetheart, okay? Shh, I'm here. Quiet. Now, you're eating something, right. I don't wanna hear anything from you until you do.”

 

I don't even have to swear. I don't even have to threaten, and that's terrifying. I stretch up to grab the smoothie and he drinks up in silence. What can I do? I'll stroke his hair. I always loved that. The old cunt too. I hear him sigh, I know he did.

-”You are sending me to him.” He wheezes after half a cup.”You're sending me to get fucked by him like it's fucking everyday _shit_.”

 

Oh God. That's it.

**That's it.**

 

Of all those years, counting the times my own fear of loosing him had burned holes in my soul, I didn't find one moment to consider his. Fuck, how am I supposed to? He always looks so fucking confident, wild with sneer and sarcasm every time I speak up. How could I know, he never speaks to me. He never said...

He never said.

 

-”Malcolm; I...”

 

-”Let me go, wee twat.”

 

He shakes me off and gets up, his usual grace cut in pieces by exhaustion and despair. A hand resting on a high armchair for balance, he stares at some place between my shoulder and thin air for a while. Then, with a broken hiss, of dismissal, he shakes his head and walks out.

There are hundreds of reasons that make me jump up and block the door. Top two being : first, he looks miserable. Julius, seeing him in that state, even through a thick haze of pure lust, will be sensible enough to just feed him biscuits, let him sleep on his couch and send him right home. I don't know who this lanky shadow is, but it must rest, eat, wash up, and change, to turn back into Malcolm Tucker.

 

 

Second, I fucking need to talk. And it's not my strong suit, so I'll need time. He's got to give me time before he goes to Nicholson's place like a martyr walks up the scaffold stairs.

 

-”I'm having none of that shit, Tucker.” I spit between clenched teeth. “I'm taking you home and I'm having a fucking word with ye.”

 

He stops, wide-eyed. Hesitates for a while, then lowers his head, turns around in agonizing slow motion and picks up his coat and Blackberry. With a sigh, he grabs my car keys on his desk and throws them at me. He's letting me do it.

 

He's fucking _letting me._

 

I took him home in silence, get him to strip and hop into a hot bath by simply fucking gently asking. I dig out toasts and instant hot chocolate from his modern-jazz bachelor kitchen. The old fucker loves hot chocolate. I think I'm the only one who knows. When he comes down, he's wearing nothing but a bathrobe and after shave. I yell at him for the crappy allusion to earlier, and the smirk he gives me alone tells me he's getting better.

 

I order him to sit on his huge grey couch, force feed him a few toasts, and silence him with a raised finger every time he opens his mouth for anything else than eating or drinking. When a shade or two of actual human colour has come back to his cheeks, I sit closer to him, hold his face with both my hands and kiss the hell out of him.

He stiffens, he wolf, he fights for a while, then melts in it with a whimper. That's a start. I part my lips wider, stroking his deft tongue with mine, and his whole body obeys my silent word, pliant and soft. I feel his fingers in my hair, and God, I'd take him here and now, I swear I'd pull those legs far apart and have him mine. But Top Reason Number Two awaits, and when he has to breathe, which is a fucking long time after, I let go, still managing to grab his bathrobe somewhere around the sleeves, while I try and knit sentences.

 

Fuck, I _hate_ that. But needs must.

 

I speak about the first time we met. Glasgow. The seminary. I speak about his eyes, his neck and his hands, how fucking beautiful he was, and still is. He looks down at his own fingers when I praise them. Like he needs to check. Yes, they're gorgeous, I say. I speak about that time in Dover, in that lousy hotel a ferry strike has stuck us in, where we spent three days watching reality shows and shagging. How magnificent he was. How I kissed his thin hips, how God seemed useless compared to the miracles of his skin. He ordered Champagne and made me lick it clean from his neck. He smiles, eyes darkened. He remembers.

I speak about me, then, how I spend my days hunting for his glances, the ones he gives me while he's bollocking the hell out of some incompetent twat, like he knows it turns me on like nothing else. How I live for those moments alone in his office, when he lets me sit in silence and eat takeaway while he reads. How a glimpse of his shoulder while he gets dressed in the morning are important as the fucking air I breathe. How he's like booze and fags to me. Like summer, I dunno. Like, something good. 

He barks a laugh, and rolls eyes. That's it, that's him. Malcolm's back. _Hello_.

 

I speak about him, at last. Malcolm Tucker, and the job, like they're two different beings. The job, like a living thing around him, like an armour. I tell him the tale of him, how he clawed his way up, year after year, with me following behind, two steps away, never one step more. How fucking good he is at wearing this full plate war tank. The legend he has become. I speak of countless ministers and puppets he played like Monopoly. He literally beams pride for one second, then he scoffs at me. I tell him no one can defeat him. He's so much better. He's unique.

But I tell him one day there won't be the job anymore. One day there will be Malcolm Tucker. Just Malcolm. And I tell him it's alright, you see. Because I'll be there that day. And I'm not in love with the fucking job, you see.

 

 _I'm in love with Malcolm Tucker_ , I say.

 

His eyes widen.

 

 

-”There, I said it, you Bigfoot gigantic quantum shift. Now listen. You're going to Julius' place, you're knocking on that door and you're bloody well give that bald twat the life size wet dream. And it hurts like hell, and it's killing me, I swear it burns holes in my guts just imagining this egg-skulled sassy fucktard touching you. But that's how we win the game, and we're fucking winning. Tomorrow 11am, he gives the phone calls and transfers the money. 2Pm, the story goes out. 8Pm, the man is dead. 10Pm, we drink til we die, and before midnight, Malcolm, sweetheart, I swear I'm having you on that very couch, straddling my lap and begging for mercy. Julius may have the Spin Doctor. I'm having Malcolm Tucker.

I finally shut up and wait for him to speak.

He doesn't. He just stares at me , mouth a wee bit slack, and my hands on his neck feel his pulse raging. I know he barely listened to my last few words. I had him stop dead like a deer in headlights at “love”, and with that he's still struggling.

 _Never say the words_ , Malcolm? You thought you made me sign this tacit vow with sheer willpower, eh? Think again, Spider. You're not making me do anything. I am your unspinnable.

 

I am the end of you.

 

His mouth shuts with a sharp noise, and he looks like he's giving up. Hell, I'll mark the day. Malcolm Tucker can't find his words.

 

His hands sneak around my waist instead, and he very gently bends down to kiss one side of my mouth. His lips are fresh and soft and it's a fucking delight. He slowly kisses the other side, and I want more. But he stands up already, his bathrobe hanging loosely, one bared thin shoulder like a beam of sunlight in the room.

-”Wait here for me” He whispers.

The glance he gives me, over that magnificent shoulder, while he walks away with a disgusting grace, is quintessential Malcolm, ice blue and pure venom. When he comes down the stairs again, he looks fucking dashing. Back suit, red tie, square nails and white smile. My liege goes to battle, full armour on, rapier wit and dripping poison.

 

My speech worked. I'm proud of myself. And fucking **raddled**.

 

 


	2. Julius - I am beyond fear.

**\- Julius Nicholson, PM advisor -**

**Friday the 10th of November 2003, 8:25pm.**

 

 

 

 

-”Malcolm.

Opening the door, I must admit I have to blink twice, struggling with my own eyes. But after a while the image persists, and I have to face the truth with dignity.

Malcolm Tucker is standing, alone, on my private home's doorstep, leaning on the doorframe, wearing what must undoubtedly be his best suit and his most endearing smile.

 

-”Malcolm?

-” _Yes_. You said my name twice already. How many hits do you need before you let me in?

 

I must be going mad. All those years playing that fools politics game have finally taken their toll. He is dropping his voice, I could swear, down one tone or two. The way he always does, in those thoughts I shouldn't be having.

I carefully step aside, letting him in. He slides past me, smelling of soap and dry cleaning. I notice the paper bag he's carrying, and silently add it to the growing list of things I can't get the meaning of tonight. Closing the heavy door, I remember it would be appropriate of me to speak, and, with it, make an attempt at giving to all this some form of sense.

 

-”What are you doing here, Malcolm? Tomorrow is election night. Surely you have better things to do than spend your time here.

 

He turns to me, graceful and light, quick as a bird, as he's always been, and flashes one of his grins again, tilting his head ever so slightly.

-”Guess what?” He chimes. “I don't.”

He raises his hand and lets the plastic bag fall open, so I can see the contents from where I stand. Which are, if I am not mistaken, my favourite brand of butter biscuits. French Palets Bretons.

He noticed. I never thought he'd notice anything about me, but who am I fooling. This is Malcolm, after all. He has to know everything. As the sight before me looks more and more like the embodiment of my most frequent daydream, I cannot help testing reality again.

-”Let's be serious, Malcolm, please. Why are you here?”

 

His eyes gleam malice and something I wouldn't dare call fondness. He lazily turns around, obviously to admire the hall, and maybe to let me admire him, who knows. I always knew he has perfect tailoring tastes, but really, this suit does wonders on him. His long legs and elegant waist have always been a marvel to me. Ah, he lost a bit of weight again. He should take care, once in a while. Black is definitely one of his colours. I thought anthracite was. Well, black isn't far behind.

_Julius, for God's sake, put yourself together._

 

_There's a reason behind this, and knowing how life has treated you in the past, it is very unlikely to be a good one._

 

-” Are we going to spend the night here, Julius? The hall is great, you know. Bigger than my apartment. It's a bit chilly, though.”

Dear me, how I love that voice.

 

I quietly show him the way to the living room, through the dinner room and the winter salon.

I glance in mirrors to see his nonchalant sneer turn into raw awe as he walks in front of my family's baroque art collection. He stops in the dinner room, at the wide frame above the fireplace. It's a delicate portrait of a woman in Renaissance clothing stroked by the yellow light of a window plane. He frowns, hesitating, I guess, between stating and asking. I smile against my will and spare him the trouble.

-”Vermeer, circa 1670. One of his last. Interested in baroque art?

He looks at me, somewhat puzzled, then at the painting again. Finally he walks past it, shrugging, and precedes me into the living room.

-”No” he mutters.

 

He grows agitated, though, the surroundings having somehow damaged the confidence he had on my doorstep. It's true, I tend to forget. After all this time, the old house has become this huge empty ship, too large, too adorned, expensive to maintain and impossible to heat up to me. I don't even look at those walls anymore. On most days, I walk straight to my desk, to my bedroom. Sometimes, I don't see the dinner room for weeks.

 

Seeing him now, I remember that even though by willpower and fury, he managed to climb higher than me on the ladder of success, Malcolm is of humble origin. His father had a shop in Glasgow, if my memory's good. Look at him now. The Ruler of all Spin Doctors. A living ball of anger and wits. I admire him. I may die before I ever tell him, but I admire his strength, his relentless ambition.

 

Ambition is one of those things I always lacked.

 

-”Have a seat, Malcolm, please. Would you care for some tea?”

He gracefully sits on my old Chesterfield couch, and rolls eyes at the idea of tea.

 

-”Allright.” I concede. “I may have some Glen Grant left. 30 years at least. Care to try?”

 

One of his deadliest smiles again. Oh, Heavens, I still can't comprehend why he is here, but I'm certainly growing fond of the fact. I open one cabinet or two, one for some music – he'll have to endure classics -, one for the whiskey. Handing him one glass, without insulting his throat with ice cubes, I choose the opposite chair and, I fear, must ask once more:

-”Will you finally give me the reason for all this? Not that I mind, not at all, but I know you, Malcolm. In ten years you haven't cared as much as to ask where I lived. Now, you're sitting here, looking positively charming, and bearing Palets Bretons. You have to admit, it requires some measure of explaining.

He takes one sip of the whiskey, and, I swear, on purpose, he licks the rim of the glass clean, his eyes fixed upon me while his pink, swift tongue gently follows the clear arc.

-”I need your help, Julius.”

 

 **Ah.** Here we are.

 

One of my favourite Mozart fugues starts to play, and it's time for me to shine. It's easy, that part. I always keep data about him. All the time. My memory has a whole inner superstore of them. Facts, notes, events, quotes. My obsession with Malcolm Tucker has almost come to the point where it ruins my life. Well, I'm 47 and probably the richest, yet loneliest man in London. Maybe it's been a while since it crossed that point.

I browse quickly the first ten reasons why Malcolm would need me. Three would require only me, and one would require only me, tonight.

 

-”Would it be related to the John Endigen business, by any chance?

 

His gorgeous winter sky eyes harden and I know I've hit the spot. Of course. The Sussex messiah. Malcolm has spent the last seven years of his career preparing the country for Prime Minister Tom Davis, and Heavens, how perfectly he did. The Sun and the Times had their election issues already printed in advance. There was no way his plan could fail. Not in ages. Malcolm had planned everything.

Except John Endigen.

The English Lambda Citizen rising to the sky. The shooting star of honest feelings, the Son of the People. The hero of the fairytale where Malcolm Tucker is the evil King. I have observed the numbers falling for him with a sympathetic pain in my chest for dear Malcolm. Oh, he is no angel, he never was. He actually _is_ the evil king.

But I am not sure he deserves such an unfair, abrupt downfall. He worked so hard. So hard, all those years. What he did was inhuman. I know no one who could spin a spiderweb covering press and government of an entire nation, single-handed, with a Blackberry and a scottish wild dog.

 

He must be in despair to come to me. If it is despair, it must mean he found nothing to bring Endigen down. If he found nothing, which doubtlessly means there is nothing, then something needs to be forged. From there, deduction is easy.

_He needs money._

Goodness, he simply needs my money.

 

His piercing steel eyes haven't left mine, and he knows. He reads me as surely as if I had spoken out loud. His hollow cheeks grow a timid shade of pink, and he drowns the rest of his liquor in one gulp. He puts the glass down on the side table and slouches on his side, his fist clenched upon his mouth. There are a few blurred seconds of cold, intricate reasoning in his eyes, but he's far too clever, far too quick for me to follow.

His calculations come to a halt, then, and I completely forget about my own train of thoughts, for he springs into action, getting up in a swirl of black clothes, grabbing a pack of biscuits on his way, and sits daintily on the armrest of my chair.

He offers me one Palet, with the most delicate movement of fingers I may have ever seen from him, and I almost whine aloud.

-”Come on, Julius. Do you know the Hell I've been through to find you those at 7pm on a friday night?

 

Does that mean he searched for them himself? He hasn't sent Sam, or anyone of his minions?

If believing the fact that Malcolm would go as far as personally asking for my help is hard enough, imagining him running the streets on his own for my favourite biscuits is definitely out of my league.

 

I look at the Palet as if a thousand poisons were dripping from it. Then I look up at his face, his pale, angular jawline in dimmed light, an ancient Caesar's statue brought to life by dark magic. His glassy eyes through insanely long lids, intense, murderous. Heavens, how beautiful. If I hand't spent my whole life holding them back, my own face would be wet with tears.

 

He is beautiful, and clever and mad, and he is not mine. He never will be. I have seen the way he looks at Jamie MacDonald, and have made my peace with me not being Jamie enough. Not being wild, not being furious. Being way too much like Julius Nicholson, last heir of the Arnage bloodline, locked up in thick wooden walls, listening to Strauss and Borodin like it's the most rebellious thing to do, running away from every single battlefield of life, afraid of everything, including smiling back to Malcolm Tucker.

 

For he smiled at me, once.

Long before Jamie, long before Head Medical Officer of Spin Malcolm Tucker ever existed. In those early years when I had just been placed on the job my father designed for me, and Malcolm was a angry, hungry Press Officer on the rise.

We met on a Art Gallery opening night, both bored to tears, both drunk as hell. Me, on my way to loneliest man in London point, and him, recently divorced and pretty much wrecked. I managed one witty remark or two. I shut one or two self-absorbed art cave hipsters mouths. He liked it. He walked to me and smiled. God, he smiled like he could burn the house down. And Heavens, maybe he could.

Maybe he could.

He smiled and bent down to read my name tag, mocked it for being too long for the badge, and toyed with my collar with his long, thin white fingers. 'If you know of a place where there's even half as many cunts and morons, just lead the way', he said, 'because this is my only Tom Ford suit, and if I stay here for one more hour, I'll ruin it with blood'.

The asymmetrical smile he gave me then just nailed my heart upon his business card forever. And yet, from there, my thoughts spiraled. I saw it all, I saw it all in one minute. Me smiling back, taking him to that lounge bar my family owns. Buying him drinks, praising his looks. Him getting even more drunk and leaning on me. The kiss, burning like forest fire, chaotic and clumsy. The drive home, and my bed, finally welcoming the couple he's been made for. His white fragile skin, his shoulder blades on the velvet covers. His lips, reddened and wet, his voice, ragged and thick. And the morning after. When he'll look into my eyes and ask me what I want to do now. The secret we'd have to keep, the weak spot, the pressure point. The suspicion, the schemes. The lies. Him, rising up to the top and getting tired of lounge bars.

I've seen it all, and so is my curse. It hadn't started yet, and I was already terrified of its end.

He smiled at me, on that night. And I looked away. Afraid of everything. Afraid of consequences. Afraid of the fractal tree of possibilities. He smiled and I walked out, shrugging his hands off me, failing to avoid a glimpse of his eyes, confused and hurt at my rejection.

I walked out on him, being just Julius Nicholson.

_Not Jamie MacDonald._

 

Jamie, as far as I know, didn't ponder for long. He tore Malcolm away from an election drink, once, grabbing his sleeve and growling. Malcolm fought back, hissed like a cat, spit venom and callous words, but the door closed behind them and neither of them did come back.

The morning after, my beloved Malcolm was quiet, and a magic spell I'll hate all my life had set his eyes afire. Jamie brought him food and he took it without a word. The pact was sealed and my failure definite.

I've been the loneliest man in London ever since.

 

But he's here, now. He's here, so real, so close, his breath almost touching my ear. Feels so right, sounds so wrong. Again, fractal tree branches split before my eyes in a thousand warnings. _He's there for a reason, Julius, he's there for your money. You had your chance for his heart a long time ago, and you missed it, like you missed every sparkle of happiness you could fight for._

 

_He's there for a reason. He's seducing you into a huge hoardcheck._

 

I reach up for the Palet, and he snatches it away from me with an exhaled “ah”, meant as a mock disapproval. He leans closer and sticks it into my gaping mouth instead, his free arm circling above my head, on the back of the chair. The angle of his hips is mortal sin. The buttery biscuit almost tastes like fire.

Putting my hand on his thigh would only require the smallest of moves. He knows. He followed my eyes with expert stare and lets out a low chuckle. He grabs my hand with soft, elegant fingers and places it on his left thigh, where I sense firm muscle and expensive fabric.

Then, truth hits me so hard I feel my heart missing a beat.

_God, no._

 

He's into more, much more that just seducing me.

Consequences unfold like the tide crashing on Dover Falls. Fractal options, cascading into hell.

 

What is he ready to give for that money exactly?

 

_He worked so hard. He needs to save his spiderweb. His creation, his sweat and blood._

 

How far is he ready to go?

 

_He'll do anything._

 

**_Anything._ **

 

No.

No, that's not the way I want it. It's never been the way. Not once, not ever.

 

-”No.

 

I get up, he nearly falls down in my chair, looks up in terror, and past repeats itself in a vicious old song, and I'm rejecting him again, and my heart cannot stand any more of that agony. Enough. Enough pain, in his eyes, in my chest, enough. Flustered and broken, he awkwardly moves to get up and leave, his face contorted in a mask of anger, but hurt lingering in his eyes, and oh thank God, for once in my wretched life, I've had enough. I am beyond fear. I gently put one hand flat against his chest and push him back into the chair.

 

-”Malcolm, no.”

 

His breath wheezes a bit, and I remember he has asthma when he's anxious. I kneel down at his level, and lay both my hands on his left knee, my eyes fixed upon him, steadier than I feel.

-”That game is unworthy of you. Please, Malcolm. Don't do this to yourself”

 

-”You know what I need” he pants, his voice furious, his eyes terrified.”Are you telling me you'd give away half a fucking million for just a biscuit and a smile? You don't care if it's Tom or John on the billboard tomorrow night. Changes nothing for you. It only means everything to me. You get nothing out of it if I don't give anything right now. And, honestly, what else did you ever want from me, Julius?”

 

He's right. I have come to a crossroad. On one hand, I can give him the money for nothing and let him go back to Jamie MacDonald. Out of honour or out of fear, I'd have failed twice to reach out for what I want most in life. I'm not sure I could stand the bitterness, the regret. I've been bathing in regret for ten long years, and it has been slowly killing every spark of joy in my heart.

On the other hand, I could reach out. I could take. No more regrets, no more daydreams. I could embrace it whole and drown in it. He's there tonight, he's real, he's in my armchair, in my living room, heated up, distressed, and nothing proves he may ever come back at this point. There won't be a John Endigen every week. He'll bloody well make sure there isn't any more, ever.

 

But, then again, Malcolm Tucker, my Malcolm Tucker, is worth so much better than this. I don't want him in my arms, eyes closed and jaw clenched, thinking hard about someone else, thinking hard about Jamie, waiting for the bad times to pass like a cheap whore. I want him to smile. I want him to toy with my collar again, lightheaded and tender, in soft whispers and deep chuckles.

 

Now, how would I obtain that?

 

With me being Julius Nicholson. Not jamie MacDonald.

Jamie won his heart. Fair game. I always lacked ambition.

_Face it, Julius, you never could have been enough. You are not complete for the evil king Malcolm has become._

Part of me hates the Caledonian Wolf for being everything I am not, part of me still finds delight in seeing Malcolm finally at peace.

I want Malcolm, oh God how I want him now, but I want him at peace with me.

I want to be complete. To be everything he needs.

 

For that, there is only one logical option, or so it would seem.

 

**I need Jamie MacDonald.**

 

-”Call him.” I state quietly. “Tell him to take a cab to here.

 

His splendid eyes widen, and surprising him makes me feel insanely powerful. Fearless for the fist time in ages, I raise myself high enough to plant a kiss on his cheek and whisper :

-”You are both paying that debt tonight.

 

With somewhat shaky fingers, and taking slow, laboured breaths, he picks up his Blackberry and dials 'call back last called' without even looking. Smiling despite the apocalypse in my chest, I slowly get up and pour him another glass. I cannot believe what I am doing. Obviously, so can't he. He keeps staring at me with at least ten different mixed feelings where I can only discern astonishment, dread, and maybe, if I may flatter myself, a slight hint of trepidation.

I don't quite grasp what he says on the phone, half of it because his voice is strangled and hushed, half of it because frankly, I couldn't care less. I think I hear ' _no, not yet_ ', and ' _shut up_ ' once or twice, along with that bittersweet reviling in which they seem to communicate exclusively.

He hangs up, still looking at me with those wide, endless pools of frozen water.

 

I offer his renewed drink and it's my turn to sit on the armrest, stroking a finger along his worried temple, offering a smile to appease his breathing, a thousand voices in the back of my head wondering where that attitude comes from.

I don't know, _I don't know._

I only know Malcolm's here. My last chance for glory is tonight. Ten years of loneliness and sorrow are imploding in my heart, endless days of longing are lifting me up, taking over me, running my mind, moving my hands.

 

I am Julius Nicholson, and tonight, I am beyond fear.

 


	3. Jamie - I'm allright.

 

**-Jamie MacDonald, head Press Officer-**

**Friday the 10th of November 2003, 10:21pm.**

 

 

I'm halfway through my fifth beer, nicely done with messing up Malcolm's living room with a chaos of empty cans and pizza delivery, and fighting rampant anxiety by aggressively skipping through TV channels, when my phone starts ringing.

Shit. _Malc._

I check the clock, nearly half pas ten. He's been gone for one hour, he can't have already done it all can he? Something's fucking wrong. I know something has fucking fucked up, I fucking told him to go, like the shitfaced moron I am, I knew I shouldn't have...

_< Jamie. >_

-”Malc. What's wrong? You didn't...

_< No, not yet.>_

-”What? Like, you're calling for a fucking tutorial or what?

_< Shut up, Jamie. He...>_

Fuck, he's wheezing. I hear it. What the fuck did this bald egg-cunt do to him to push him into fucking asthma? Even through the phone, I literally feel his chest tighten, and I swear I'm one second away from driving up there bringing a fucking gun.

-”Calm down, luv, eh? Breathe. What's going on?

_< He wants you to come over.>_

-”What? Why? Has he told you why?”

_< Not yet. Not exactly. I think he wants to...>_

-”To what? He'd like me to be there so he can tell us both to go to hell, right? We pass him the fucking phone, I'll tell this chamberpot-skulled uptight prick how I -

_< For God's sake, you one-third scale tin soldier, will you shut up? Just take a cab and come over, right?>_

 

Silence. One wheezing breath that fucking breaks me heart. Fuck, I need to see him. Now.

-”Incoming.”

 

I hang up and rush out in the street. From Malcolm's City apartment door to the wealthy streets of Totteridge, I slide from mild worry to a heavy urge to kill Nicholson and set his fucking Tim Burton Nightmare House in flames.

Ringing his doorbell, the certainty of finding Julius soaked in Malcolm's blood almost makes me sick. Fucking stupid, I've been fucking stupid. Malcolm can defend himself, alright, but he's so fucking tired, right now. What if Julius was a full-tilt psycho? I mean, Malc's strong, but he lost like five more fucking pounds those last weeks, what if... -

 

The door opens and I'm ready to kill.

 

Except that when Julius appears at the door, Malcolm's there behind him, in shirtsleeves, looking fine. My anger is brought-up short by a finger he raises to his lips.

 

-”Jamie. Do come in, please.” Julius says, always polite and so fucking affable.

I grunt and walk past him, mouthing “what the fuck” or something of that kind to Malcolm. He shakes his head in dismissal and gives half a smile to Julius.

-”Gentlemen” the Oxford twat says, “allow me.”

And he gently shows us the way through his fancy medieval castle house, like we're in fucking BBC Cranford. It takes more time to go from his front door to his Cathedral of a living room than it took my mother to go to from home to the fucking Tesco in town. But while walking, Malcolm takes my hand and squeezes it, lowering his eyelids in quiet reassurance when I turn to him. He looks a wee bit worried, but he's not wheezing anymore. So it's fine. It's fine for now.

 

Julius goes to one of his ancient shelves carved like a fucking prayer book and pulls out a bottle of single malt that looks older than me. He pours a generous glass for me, and that may just have saved his life. He smiles again, and shows me one big fancy leather armchair next to him.

But Malcolm sits on the couch, and from now on, I refuse to be further than five fucking inches from him. I resolutely sit next to him, and Julius just nods peacefully.

I drown half of my scotch, and fuck it's a good one. It sets my stomach on fire and burns the rest of my patience to a crisp.

 

-”So, you are gonna tell me the fuck is going on or what?

 

Julius bald-fag Nicholson looks like he's the fucking king of the castle. Sitting upright in his leather throne, letting the dimmed lights play in his -untouched, I'm bloody sure - glass of Scotch like the last heir of the Lannisters.

 

He stares at Malcolm with fucking reverence, and Malcolm, if he doesn't look completely submissive, appears to have taken a bloody step backwards. Tamed. That's it. He looks fucking tamed. I thought only me could make him look like that. The acid rage in my gut threaten to light up again when Julius starts to speak, in tones I haven't heard since fucking seminary.

-”Malcolm has made the situation very clear to me concerning this Endigen business and I may safely say that we are close to an agreement.”

 

I turn to Malc, but his eyes are fixed upon Julius, tense with expectation. I feel he already has a very good guess about what's coming next, but he's still waiting for confirmation. Well, I don't have a fucking clue, so I turn back to Julius and spit :

-”Skip the crap, Baldy Queen. You gonna do it or not?”

 

Julius sighs at my rudeness and Malcolm lays a featherweight hand on my thigh. Okay, okay. Peace Treaty, got it. I sit back down in the couch, gulp down more scotch, and wait.

 

 

-”I am willing to... _grant_ the necessary amount of money involved in Malcolm's plan. I also have a few friends in the business field who can rapidly produce a very guilty financial package that would make John Endigen's whole campaign look like it has been funded by weapon, pharmaceutic or porn industry. It is a clean, fast and quite solid way of ruining any Hero of the People's credibility as PM in near or distant future. This can be done with one phone call from here, so you both earn a lot of time.

 

Malcolm inhales deeply, his breath trembling towards the end, and exhales in a sharp relieved wheeze. His fingers on my thigh unclench, and fuck, I didn't even notice they tensed in the first place. My own chest feels a bit lighter, but I've been through enough deals and bargains with all kinds of wee fuckers from schoolyards to Number Ten, and I know it doesn't end here.

 

-”Exchange for what?” I growl, putting every fucking menace I could in three small words.

 

Julius smiles once more, like the well-bred Eden snake he is, and points an elegant hand towards Malcolm.

 

-”For that part, I shall let dear Malcolm tell us what exactly he is proposing to give.

 

Malcolm frowns and we trade a few quick glances. I know now, he could bloody well say 'nothing, you egg-head fuck' and walk out. Julius would still do it all. I underestimated by far the fucking **feelings** Julius had for him. King Lannister on the Leather Throne is literally mad about Malcolm, I see that. Christ, the way he looks at him. Like he's God's own flesh and bones, like he's the zero point of the whole fucking universe.

Malc wouldn't even need to lift one side of his shirt. He's not Malcolm if he hasn't figured this out by now, because it took me fifteen fucking minutes from front door to do it.

 

Thing is, there's something else. I wouldn't be here if there wasn't.

 

Malcolm's intense stare is weighing Julius from head to toe, from now to ten years ago, from here to Number Ten.

 

My rage speaks again, in my ears, in my chest. Blind, deaf rage that boils inside me, sometimes quiet, never dead. Why aren't we out of here already, eh? Why the hesitation, Malcolm?

I knew it. I fucking **knew** it. Those two got common history, right? Surely not shagging, for Julius' virginity is carved on his fucking wide bald forehead. Maybe Julius' feelings are older than I thought.

And while we're at it, they may not even be one-sided, eh?

The acid rage is surging up, now a shrieking howl in my ears, exploding in my guts, strangling my lungs in an iron grip. I feel dizzy with fury and terror, again, as countless times before, only ten times stronger. It's like the ground is crumbling down under my feet into the fucking fire pits of hell.

 

**No.**

 

No. I'm alright with him being a whore for his fucking job, and it's already hard enough. But his heart is fucking mine, I fought for it, I fucking battled death for it. No one touches Malcolm Tucker's heart. Not Julius Uptight fag Nicholson, not a soul, never.

 

Never. Fucking _never._

 

I get up with a grunt, grab Malc's arm, yank him out of the couch and drag him outside in the dinner fucking hall, slamming the door behind us before he has one chance to speak. Christ, he weights nothing. I can almost close my fucking fingers around his arm. I release him gently, fearing I'd hurt him.

He tries to speak, I speak louder :

 

-” **Shut up**! You shut the hell up and you just answer to one fucking question : do you love him?

Whatever sentence he was busy with is cut short and he blinks twice.

-”What?

-”Julius. D'ya _love_ the fucker?

He looks at the wooden door as if he could see Julius through it. He may have taken five to ten seconds to answer, but I swear I am fucking dying in flames a hundred times before he speaks again.

-”No.

-”Then why the fuck do you-

A raised hand again, and I keep quiet. When did I start obeying him like this?

-”I don't... I don't hate him” he breathes. “Never did. I like him, and now I _owe_ him. I may actually _want_ to give him something. Oh, _calm down_ , you jealous prick. Nothing compared to you, alright? But he is... not an enemy. I think I know why he told me to get you here. He wants to make it easier. He wants me to...”

-”...enjoy it.”

 

He nods, teeth clenched.

 

-”Would you? I mean, if I join in. Would you?”

 

He looks right up into my eyes, and it's like those mountain lakes drown my rage to silence. It only takes one second. The acid burn melts down to a distant nagging. Then nothing. Because it's _that_ look, you see? His eyes like fucking stained glass on a bright sunny day, screaming devotion and promises of a lifetime with his voice in my ear. This is what he tells me with _that_ look. _Never speak the words_ , the tacit contract I broke today. Well, that's what he meant by that.

He leans down for a kiss. I didn't need the confirmation, but fuck, I welcome it. Open mouthed and slick and hungry. With his lips still on mine he whispers ' _yes_ ', and all the things it implies go straight to my groin.

 

Okay, then. Alright. All fucking right. After all, we owe the Snake a big deal, eh?

 

I clear my throat, wipe my mouth with my sleeve and open the door again.

 

Julius hasn't moved a bit, except for the phone he's holding in his hand. As we step closer he looks up, and smiles, as if, of course, everything was going according to plan. Fuck, I've known a Julius who couldn't even look at me in the eyes, who the hell is this guy?

Well, Malcolm does that to people. Drives you mad, eh? Tell me about it, Julius.

Tell me about it.

 

-”Ah, gentlemen. It is my pleasure to announce you that everything has been done as planned.” He says, hitting the hang-up button and putting down the phone.

He gets up, poised as a fucking vicar, and walks towards us with slow, calculated steps.

 

-”I can safely assume the story shall be out and printed tomorrow around noon. The probability of Mr. Endigen ever becoming Prime Minister of England will be dropping to near zero around tea-time. It required, of course, a certain amount of wisely distributed financial incentives which will be transferred during the day of tomorrow as the story unfolds. But do not worry. All you shall need to do, dear Malcolm, is to prepare Tom Davis' lines for his slightly shocked, yet deeply humanist reaction speech. But this shouldn't be a bother to you, I am sure.”

 

Fuck, he's good.

 

-”Now” Julius whispers with extra care handling. ”Could I be informed of your decision regarding my... recompense?”

 

Without a word, Malcolm takes the three steps that separate him from Julius with a gait that could damn a thousand souls, and, cupping his head between his slender hands, paints on his parted lips one of the world's sexiest artworks.

I start with a gasp at the sound of broken crystal. There goes on the floor Julius' still untouched glass of scotch.

 

-”Here or in your bed?” Malcolm prompts.

 

Julius, looking flustered to the point of breaking down in tears – _ah, there you are, good ol' Nicholson_ – gulps noisily a few times and, muttering something about gentlemen and please, stumbles away to the opposite door.

 

 

 

His bedroom is just like I imagined. Fuck, was this bed thing built for Henry the fucking Eighth or what? My whole fucking family could fit in there with arms open wide. It's bloody huge, four-poster, in black ebony wood carved with lions and ivy leaves.

The room has tall stained glass windows, in yellow and blue hues, and again, lions. It's fucking medieval, I knew it. Velvet everywhere, curtains, bed and shit. I'd like to spit out one good juicy piece of sarcasm about that fancy old fag living in fucking Canterbury Church, but I can't, because I can't breathe, because Malcolm is dropping his shirt down on the floor.

His armour is gone. White fragile skin painted in lights of yellow and blue. The Spin Doctor's metal plates have been peeled off. Glowing there is Malcolm Tucker's skin. My rage jumps up – mine, _mine_ \- , but I smack it down with the memory of that look, that kiss. I'm here, I'm part of the game, that's how he wants it.

I'm allright. _I'm allright._

 

I could get close and participate, and maybe I will, but right now, you know what? I'll just watch. I'm dying to know how forty-five virgin Julius Nicholson is going to handle a naked Malcolm Tucker. Because, frankly, even I sometimes need time to stop and stare.

Julius, truth be told, is a heartbreaking sight. His cheeks red, his eyes watering and his mouth slack, he barely finds a way to stroke Malcolm's hands while the old silver fox has his way with Julius' suit and tie. Once they're both half naked, Malc tilts his head to lick and bite at Julius' neck, and God, I know how _that_ feels. Drains your brains out, reduces you to a pile of begging, sniveling flesh.

 

Julius is no better than me.

 

When Malcolm steps away towards the bed, he almost falls forward.

Walking to the huge velvet covers, Malcolm kicks off his shoes and socks, sparing a glance for me. I'm staying put, leaning against the wall. 'It's allright', I mouth soundlessly.

He smiles like the devil wouldn't dare to, and lays down on the bed. His grace is almost inhuman. I know it's carefully calculated, I know it's an expertise learnt over the years, but I can't help it, it gets me every time.

I look at Julius, defying him to make a move. Which he does, after a touching, yet awkward moment spent discarding his own pants, shoes and socks in a pathetic hesitation between folding neatly and throwing away. He joins Malcolm in bed crawling like a pilgrim does. And Malcolm, foul creature he is, just lays there heavy-lidded and smiling, with clearly no intent to help.

 

If totally unexperienced, I can't blame Julius for any lack of motivation. He goes for Malcolm's jawline, covering it with slow kisses and shy strokes of the tongue. He reaches his ear, very good. Malcolm moans, and his lean, supple hips twist and arch up in the bed. Catching the hint, Julius dares a small bite, right below the ear. The sound Malcolm makes has no name, and it clouds my vision even if I'm not touching him. I am rock-hard, and already breathing too heavily for my own good.

Fuck, if I don't calm down I'll be cumming in my pants right before I even lay a finger on him, so much for my mocking Julius.

Julius' hands have found Malcolm's waist and from where I am I can see his frantic grip digging hollows in the white, soft flesh. The aristocrat's face is frozen in awe, hovering above Malcolm's, his eyes drowning into the deep, iced mountain lakes. Malcolm allows it for a while, then grows impatient, and sticks out a deft, pink bit of tongue to lick Julius' bottom lip. Julius shivers visibly, lets out a desperate whimper, and dives into malcolm's mouth. Fuck, he's hungry. He has no clue, but he sure wants it badly.

Malcolm's glittering eyes look for mine over Julius' shoulder and ask in silence. I nod.

The silver devil snakes his hands around Julius, then, and pulls him down. Julius' crotch meets Malcolm's lean, firm thigh, and Malcolm fucking arches his hips up, rubbing against Julius' hard-on once or twice with merciless precision, sending him howling in his mouth. Obviously cut away from all thinking, Julius ruts against Malcolm's thigh, his moans getting hectic and loud. If the Oxford twat goes on like this, it'll be soon all over for him and he wouldn't even have Malcolm out of his pants.

I keep watching for a few more seconds. Malcolm frowns, breaks the kiss and hisses in disapproval, but Julius, eyes shut tight, mouth slack, is already lost in a haze of lust.

 

I lock my gaze with Malcolm's and shrug. We could let him finish that way and go home, right? But Malc breathes what could only be a “no” and beckons me with a sharp move of his head. Right. We owe him. Right.

 

I quietly strip to my briefs and slip next to them in the bed. Julius doesn't even notice. His lips have found where Malcolm's neck and collarbone meet, so he is busy worshipping that skin with all he has, and judging by the chaotic thrusts of his hips against Malcolm's, he won't last long.

 

I raise up a hand to Julius' shoulder blades, but, damn. It's Julius. I'm about to touch Julius fucking Nicholson. My hand glides above his back for a while, my heart tightening. Then, out of the blue, Malcolm's fingers are in my hair, stroking gently, urging me on. Our eyes connect again, and he lets out a ragged breath, because Julius did something good with his mouth. That is enough to wash away my last doubts.

 

I lay my hand on the small of Julius' back and hiss :

-”Slow down, you moron. Ye haven't seen half of it.”

 

The wealthy cunt jumps, turns to stare at me in hazed worry, like a junkie pulled out of his fix.

Malcolm chuckles, and takes advantage of the break to grab Julius' hands and guide them to his pants zipper.

-”Ah. _Oh_. Yes. Sorry.” Julius stutters, and manages to pull the black pants off him without too much embarrassment. Trembling and eager like a fucking teenager, he goes straight for Malcolm's underpants and here again, I tut and slap his hands away.

He turns to me once more, and, rolling my eyes, I start gently stroking his chest to demonstrate. I thought he'd be fatter. He's not. He's not too bad. He has this patch of dark hair on his chest that Malcolm hasn't. He's a bit thicker, which is fucking easy. I like it. He moans a bit, surprised, I guess, by how good it feels. When he's had enough of my hands, I lean down to nibble at the fucker's neck, slowly going down in sloppy wet kisses, stopping at one of his nipples for a firm, circling lick. He shivers and whimpers, grabbing my hair as if it'll keep him from falling backwards. I like it.

I hear Malcolm delicate, peaceful laughter in the background, and that's even better.

 

I kiss and lick as far as Julius' briefs waistband, and climb back up, making him beg and praise in short unrelated words, like yes, please, and again.

 

-”Feels good, uh?” I tease, my hot breath against his nipples sending violent shivers along his spine.

-”Heavens, yes!” he chants, panting.

I break away and nod to Malcolm, lying down between us with a wild light in his eyes.

-”So, you know what to do now. Giddy up.”

 

He turns to Malcolm in silent epiphany and sets about reproducing the exact things I had just done to him with moving dedication. Malcolm, delighted, doesn't break eye contact with me, not for one second. He lets out moans and deep grunts, all carefully measured to teach where, and when. Julius obviously learns fast, because Malc's eyes darken, his pupils exploding into black holes, and some of his soft cries grow a little bit less controlled. God, I'd never thought his looking at me while pleasured by someone else could positively drive me crazy with desire. I have to grab the covers hard to prevent myself from pulling my dick out and finishing myself in four strokes.

 

He stays with me, even when he's arching up and twisting in his arms, blindly aligning their hips and looking for friction. His eyes, struggling to stay open, are dark and glassy. I hear one of those sounds he also makes with me for the first time. Julius is getting good.

Time to reward him.

I lean close, bite hard on the back of the aristocrat's shoulder to distract him, and he stops moving with a yelp. Oh. Blood. That tends to happen often with me. Malcolm never gets time to heal completely before the next bruise.

 

While Julius stares at me in silent wonder, I just smirk and, very carefully, slide my hands under Malcolm's briefs to pull them down. Julius gulps dryly, fascinated by the descending fabric. Malcolm looks away, a hand on his mouth, as he always does, He never wants to look at himself. I dunno why, for he's not fucking small. He's fierce and flushed pink and fuck, I really need to calm down.

I throw the briefs away and nod to Julius' own. He strips them off in a hurry, entangling his own legs in the process. He's not huge, but average will do. Malcolm seems to appreciate, anyways, as he looks down at the throbbing hard-on, then up again at Julius' face, and gives him one three-star smile.

I stretch myself out next to Malcolm, demand his attention with a slow kiss – hearing Julius' moan of approval - and question him wordlessly.

With a stern look, he makes it clear that he's not having Julius' dick up his arse. Good. Something I can call mine. What then?

 

He seems to ponder on the exact same thing, while Julius waits, ecstatic, stroking Malc's arms with untainted piety. Then, slowly, with deliberate languid moves, he brings one of Julius' hands up to his swollen, wet mouth, selects three of his digits, leaving out thumb and little finger, and parts his lips for them. He swallows them deep, coating them with spit. Julius shudders, and I have to look down to check if he didn't just came right here and now. He didn't. But that was close.

I peek back at Malcolm, frowning. _You sure?_

He nods, sucking on Julius' fingers with agonizingly slow, wet moves.

 

So be it.

 

I sigh, put my hand back on Julius' back and guide him until he's laying just right between Malcolm's legs. The Oxford twat stares right at me now, awaiting my instructions like Holy Word, looking lost, demented by having his fingers sucked by Malcolm's expert tongue. I know, pal. I know.

Malc releases the hand he kept as hostage and transfers it to my care. I position Julius fingers at the right spot, between Malcolm's firm thin buttocks.

-”One at a time” I whisper. “Gently”.

Inexperienced as he may be, Julius is still many things, including clever. He softly strokes Malcolm's hole with one wet finger, and, mercifully, to distract him from what he's doing, Malcolm grabs his head and kisses him. The shock gets Julius to enter him, and Malcolm gasps, tensing, throwing his legs up, crossing his ankles above Julius' back.

 

Julius freezes.

 

-”Move it”, I command.

 

He moves it. And he moves it allright. Malcolm lets out small gasps, closer to the ones I know. Oh, fuck, the spasms of his belly. I've never seen them from that angle. The slow dance of his hips, shit, I need to come so bad. I need to touch him, I need -

-”Crook it. Upwards.” I breathe instead, barely recognizing my own voice in this thick, raspy whisper.

 

Julius obeys.

Malcolm cries out, and his eyes hook into mine. Yes. He's high on this. On his way. Good.

-”Add a second. Move.”

He does. Malcolm shouts, arching his hips up into Julius' fingers, his hands on his back, threatening to tear skin apart with short nails. Julius starts to thrust his hips blindly too. He takes a hell of a time to match Malcolm's rhythm, but eventually, it looks like he does. The silver fox grunts. ' _Faster_ ', his eyes beg me.

-”Faster” I demand.

After some time of their chaotic, violent dance, Julius adds a third finger without being asked for it. Malcolm literally wails, and his cock twitches in response, so that's fine. Time to go to next level.

I spit and lick my own hand, until it's soaked wet. Then, lying closer to them, I slip it between them, wait for a moment in their dance where both their cocks align, and encircle them in my fingers. They're both already way beyond thanking me, but one of Malc's hands comes and grabs the back of my neck. He's with me. He always is.

Julius starts chanting Malcolm's name, in between unstitched praise and sweet words that almost make my heart melt. I don't get them all, but I hear “Malcolm”, “gorgeous”, “All those years” and “sorry”. Then just “Malcolm”. “ **Malcolm** ”.

It doesn't last long. It takes Julius five last uneven thrusts between my hand and Malcolm's cock to scream out in raw ecstasy and soak my hand with thick, hot spurts of semen.

 

He pulls out everything right after, cock and hand, as if ashamed of the mess he's caused, and collapses on Malcolm's side with a heartbreaking sob. Malcolm growls in frustration and I come in to finish him, pushing two fingers inside him with maddening ease, and stroking him with my other hand, coated in Julius' come. The sight of this is as fucking tsunami in Julius' crazed eyes, and he almost comes again just by looking at it.

 

Malcolm has still one hand on my neck and the other on Julius' back, and I suppose it's alright. So when he comes, his whole body strained as a bowstring, head thrown back in a silent cry, we both feel his hands fist, nails digging in our flesh, drawing blood in Julius' back, making my own spine crack.

 

He lays back onto the bed with a sigh, slowly untangling his fingers from us, and catches his breath under both our loving stares. After a while he cracks his eyelids open and looks at me. God, his eyes are brighter than fucking life-lights. He is beautiful. He is everything.

Lost in my contemplating Malcolm, I didn't notice Julius springing back to life, almost jumping above Malc to pin me on the thick covers with both his hands.

-”Hey, what...?”

The Eden snake smiles at me, I'd swear with fucking tenderness, pecks me on the lips like a schoolboy would... and drops down south without a warning to pull my briefs down and swallow me whole.

 

-”Shit! **Julius!** ” I gasp, dumbfounded.

 

He's good. A wee bit too much teeth, but still good. God, I'm close. I didn't know I was already so fucking close, but yes, I remember now. My eyes fall shut and my hands find his hairless head by their own will. He hollows his cheeks, sucking deep with a steady, unbreakable rhythm. I think I'm crying out, I dunno. Fingers come stroking my hair and I suppose it's Malcolm's. He's here, so it's allright, I can let go.

 

My hips thrust into Julius' mouth and I'm vaguely afraid I'd choke him. But he goes on, gripping my thighs and bobbing his head, not stopping for a second, even when my cries become a warning.

-”Julius! Julius, stop, ye fucker, I'm gonna – _Ah!_

My whole mind turns to white. It's like staring at the sun. I am reduced to a brainless, senseless pile of moaning flesh for fifteen seconds, before I crumble into pieces, falling back on the bed in a boneless heap.

The first thing I hear, coming back from the void, is Malcolm's soft laughter, so it's fine. It's fine.

 

I open my eyes, looking down into Julius triumphant face. The Oxford cunt swallowed everything. Fuck. I'd never have guessed. He assesses my well-being for a while, then nods, and rushes to the bedside table. He comes back with soft wet tissues smelling like fucking lavender, and starts cleaning the three of us, from mouths to hands and crotches. I fucking don't want to know why the moneybag shite has lavender-scented tissues in his bedside table, but Malcolm laughs again, a bit like he laughs with me, so I'm allright with that.

 

_I'm allright._

 

 

A time comes when Julius reverently pulls the covers over Malcolm and me, then shyly slips in next to us. We lay there for a while, Malcolm between us, purring like a giant cat. The sheets are thick cotton, the pillows soft and smooth.

I look over to Julius, still flushed, abashed and panting. He's been good. I liked his devotion to Malc, his blind faith in me. I can't even bring myself to mock his forty-five first sex, his bald head, his trembling hands. Fuck, right now I could even find him sexy. I must be fucking high on endorphins. Yet, I resolutely give him my first true smile. It's quick and it's lame, but that's how it is with me. He accepts my Peace Offering with a delighted chuckle, not totally devoid of pride.

Then I glance at Malcolm, who stares back with sleepy eyes. He asks. I nod.

So he turns to Julius laying on his back next to him, draping one arm around his chest just as he does with me, lays his head near his shoulder and closes his eyes with a content sigh. In less than one minute of a complete surrender and trust, the restless Spin Doctor is fast asleep, like a dead weight upon Julius.

Baffled, the last heir of Arnage peers at me over Malcolm's head, and I wink.

 

That's the exact moment he starts crying.

 

It doesn't look like tears of sorrow, that's why I don't move, but it bloody well looks like years and years of suppressed feelings flowing back to him, like a flood barrier splitting in half. He cries and cries in silence, holding on Malcolm like he would his own life, but not too hard, so he doesn't wake him up.

Julius wordlessly makes his peace with the past. While he cries like I've never seen him cry, I sense he's happier than he's ever been in his weird, lonely life, and I remember the Head Priest telling tales about Redemption.

When his sobs recede and his breath evens out, I rest one hand on Malc's waist and close my eyes.

 

Later on, Julius' fingers may or may not have joined me there, but I'm allright with that.

 

_I'm allright._

 

 

 


	4. Epilogue : Malcolm

 

 

**\- Malcolm Tucker, Head Communications Officer -**

**Saturday the 11th of November, 2003, 11:12am**

 

 

 

 

Two things before I open my eyes.

First, I overslept. I know that. I'm feeling far too good for my usual 3-hours night.

Second, that bed doesn't feel like mine. Or Jamie's.

 

I wake up in a start, heart racing. It's fucking election day. Endigen. _Fuck_. Where's my fucking phone?

Then I recognize the velvet covers. And I remember Julius. Julius and Jamie. Oh, right.

I hear something like a throaty purr, and I look around, stretching. There's only me, so I suppose I did it. Well, this bed sure is comfy. I peek around for a clock. How long did I sleep? Shit, the sun is high already, if I can trust those nonsensical windows.

Why did those fuckers let me _sleep_?

 

I get up, sighing in the loss of this bed, and look for my clothes. They're nowhere to be found, and I let out a low groan. There's only one thick, cotton brocade dressing gown folded on a chair, oh, Julius, you must be fucking kidding me.

 

Well. It's soft, though. _Could be worse._

 

Tightening the belt, I get down the stairs, trying to remember the way back to the living room through this insane maze of pointlessly adorned corridors. Stepping in the hall, it seems I won't have to, since I'm hearing voices behind this one door on the left, one of them Jamie's.

-” I thought you had a fuckload of servants to run King's Landing”

Undoubtedly Jamie.

-”I have three maids, a butler and one cook; only not on weekends. King's what?”

And there's Julius. I wouldn't notice I'm smiling, if this hall wasn't fucking made of mirrors.

_Shit, there's no time for that fuckery._

 

I barge in, slamming the door behind me and hissing:

-”The fuck's my phone?

 

They both stare at me, sitting side by side on a fucking huge breakfast table, and, by the way, this whole room is a fucking conservatory. Everything's made of white lead wood, sandstone and glass. It's fucking magnificent, it smells like coffee and toasts, sugar and eggs, and I had much more bollocking in store, but it all runs dry now, because I'm far too obviously impressed by his fucking house. Just like last night. Fuck. I look down, because if anyone noticed, I might have to kill him.

 

Jamie pushes my Blackberry towards me on the table, right next to a gigantic food tray – those cunts seriously don't expect me to eat all _that_ , do they?

-” Four messages.” He mumbles, his mouth full of jam and toasts. “Terry: pointless crap. Ollie : I typed the speech you fucking dictated me and I'm trying to make you believe it's mine. Terry: more pointless crap. Tom : where are you, it's 10am.”

-” **10 am !** What fucking time is it now, you fucking piss-brained idle shitholes?

-”Chill, Malc.” The wee fucker chimes. “It's only half past eleven. Story goes out around noon, remember? We got nuttin to do until then. Hey, sit down, lanky old cunt. Ya need to feed once a year, ye know?”

 

I rub my temples and let out one long irritated hiss. But he's right. I remember. Julius has done everything. And, fuck, I trust him on this.

I fucking trust him.

 

I peek at him, bald head bathing in morning light, staring at me with apologetic eyes.

 

-”I am sorry, Malcolm. I wanted to wake you up, but Jamie said you needed sleep. You were so peaceful. I thought -

 

Oh, allright, _allright_ , stop that, you hairless twat, I might be smiling again, and I don't have mirrors here to check that out.

-”Shut up.” I just grumble.

I walk to the table, with only one spare glance for my phone. They had it charged.

I stop next to Jamie, who looks up at me with unbearable mirth and cherry jam on his cheek. I give him my best scorning huff, but it does nothing to the wee cunt. He has luxury food for free and a warm dressing gown matching mine, he's sitting next to Julius like they've been fucking best pals since World War, and he's bloody beaming joy.

Joy makes him quite a nice sight to see. My Jamie.

 

I run one hand through his black messy hair. He took a shower, less than one hour ago.

 

I lean down and kiss his jam-coated lips, which makes him growl happily and open wide, like I'm the best part of his fucking breakfast. His left hand, the one that isn't holding a savage pile of toasts, goes for a squeeze of my waist, and the next scorn I have for him doesn't come out half as angry as I'd want it to.

 

Well, we still have time, right. This room's nice. I like the house. Could be worse.

 

With Jamie's hand still lingering on my hip, I glide towards Julius, who clearly doesn't know what to expect. The bargain is closed, both parts of the deal completed. No one would blame me for going back to what we were before and bollock the hell out of him, have him crawl back in his Victorian cave and snivel about how cruel I am, just for my sheer entertainment.

But I remember. His hands on me, his lips on mine. I remember how he was looking at me, and his words, all of them. I may lie to the whole wide world but I'm not a fool. I won't lie to myself.

I did enjoy it.

_A lot._

 

And as far as I know, Jamie didn't mind. And since he's now all relaxed and joyful, sitting next to him in nothing but a loose dressing gown, voice calm, eyes glittering, behaving as if Julius is fucking part of his wolf pack, he still doesn't.

 

As I ponder, unmoving, Julius is growing terrified, his thin confidence melting to liquid fear, and he stares at me now in pure supplication. Mercy, his eyes implore, save the pain for later.

_Ah, Julius, Julius. Learn to know me._

 

I hold his face between my hands and kiss his mouth, not as long, not as deep, but just enough to make myself clear. He whimpers in relief and blindly grabs my sleeve. Behind my back, I literally feel Jamie punching the air.

 

I break the kiss and look at Julius. He's crying. Not bothering to ask why, I just don't let go of his face yet.

 

-”How much time until the first press releases?” I whisper, as soothingly as I can.

-”Between 30 and 90 minutes”, he stutters. “ It would be better actually if the story didn't find you at your office, you see. You'll appear less connected to...”

-” I know. Where are our suits?”

-”I had them dry-cleaned and ironed, so, you see, they don't look like...” he gulps. “They're in the bathroom.”

-”Perfect” I breathe, like a caress. He calms down.

-”So" he goes on, trying his luck,"if you would sit down, I'd be happy to make some more coffee, for Jamie has already emptied all of the -”

-”Hey!”Jamie growls in fake anger. “Was getting cold”.

 

Julius is not crying anymore, and I let go of him, with a last kiss on his head. He smiles up to me then, and I think I've never seen this smile on Julius. It transforms his face. He looks younger. Where does it come from?

Oh, maybe it's _**that**_ smile. The one he held back from me.

 

_**Ten years ago.** _

 

I sit on the opposite chair, facing them, and, fuck, they both positively exult when I choose one toast and take the first bite. It's like me eating their food meant something to them. Weird fuckers.

 

There will be a time to put the armour back on and phone Tom.

There will be a time for the office war-room, the furious shouts, the finger biting, the news watch, the spinning.

There will be a time for dripping sarcasm at loosers. Crushing bodies under my feet.

There will be celebration tonight. Drunk cheering and stolen glances.

 

And after that, maybe next week, maybe next month...

 

-”I'd like to see that painting again.”

 

Jamie looks up puzzled, then seems to grasp some of my meaning and performs a terrifying hungry smile. He turns to Julius, elbowing him hard in the guts, winking with the stealth of a fucking landmower. Julius just tries on his first lopsided smile, and God, how fast he learns.

 

-”The Vermeer”, he says. “Of course. It used to be my most treasured thing in this house, you know.”

 

 

 

I stare at him while his meaning sinks in.

 

My Blackberry rings.

I'm not picking up.

 


End file.
